<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>the city of asthma by itisjosh</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29795637">the city of asthma</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/itisjosh/pseuds/itisjosh'>itisjosh</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>onlypain [57]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Afterlife, Angst, Denial, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Mentioned Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Past Character Death, Reunions, Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, fuck dsmp!dream, no one likes him, part one of my TOMMY FUCKING DIES series</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 16:55:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,000</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29795637</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/itisjosh/pseuds/itisjosh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilbur turns, slowly and precisely, terror worming its way up into his chest, and this time he's positive that he's going to suffocate on his fear. He turns, and when he's finally turned around, he sees him. He sees him.</p><p>Tommy. </p><p>His little brother. His right hand man. A child soldier who should have never had his life ripped away from him. </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>onlypain [57]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2027711</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>666</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the city of asthma</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ever since his death, Wilbur has busied himself by moving in between worlds, slipping in and out of multiple realities that don't actually exist. He moves from world to world, sidestepping universes entirely as he dances with life and death, tiptoeing along the lines of purgatory and the in betweens. Wilbur has played cards with life and death, and he's constantly been winning every single match placed in front of him without a single slip up. Wilbur thinks that it's sort of ironic how often he wins, considering the majority of his life was filled with nothing but losses. One loss after another, something like a consistent in his free-falling life that he never seemed to be able to rebalance once it started to fall out of his grasp. Now, Wilbur thinks to himself as he moves back into one of his favourite purgatories, it seems like he's finally regained his balance for the first time in what feels like an eternity. Wilbur is well aware of the time passing, he's well aware that in the world he came from, in the hell and heaven where he's <em>supposed</em> to stay, it's only been, at most, a year. Though it's certainly been less than that, maybe a month or two? Four months? Maybe five? Wilbur isn't entirely sure about how long it's been, but he knows that it's been under a year. </p><p>Wilbur moves across the line between death and life, stepping into the real world, feeling his physical form burn and buzz as he moves into a place filled with breathable air and soft promises that glide along the wind. The promises are all made out of voices that he thinks he should know, but he doesn't quite recognise them. Maybe they're one of those things that, no matter how hard he tries, he just can't remember. There are a few things that are like that in Wilbur's life. Wilbur pauses, standing a little taller, standing a little straighter. He looks up to the sky, narrowing his eyes, squinting at the sun. Something is wrong, something is off. This place doesn't feel like his world, this world doesn't feel like the place where he died. Wilbur looks behind him, over his shoulder, staring back into the purgatory where he came from. It's not really purgatory, it's something different entirely, something that only this place in particular has, but purgatory is a close enough word for it. Wilbur taps his foot against the ground, shifting back and forth on his feet, swaying as he tries to centre himself, as he tries to refocus. </p><p>Something is wrong, and he needs to figure out what it is before it drives him insane. Wilbur moves, leaving a trail of frost behind him in his wake. He looks down at he grass below him, frowning at the way it turns grey and blue, frozen over with ice and dusted with snow. Every time he comes to this world, he always leaves something behind, and he doesn't understand quite understand why. For whatever reason, it's always blue. Wilbur shakes his head, entirely clearing his head. That's not important right now. What's <em>important</em> is that he figures out what the fuck is wrong with this world before it drives him to madness. Although Wilbur thinks he's exaggerating, if something is off in <em>his</em> world, then something is off with his <em>mind</em>, too. That's the only thing he can think of, and Wilbur is sick and tired of having to deal with things in his head. The last thing he had to deal with that lingered in his mind, murmuring soft words into his ears from inside his eardrums, was <em>Schlatt</em>, and Wilbur was unbelievably annoyed about that. Schlatt was arguably one of the most annoying things that Wilbur has ever had to deal with in his entire life, and Wilbur is not going to do that again. If something is off with his world, then his mind is the reason for that. </p><p>Unless it isn't. Unless Schlatt was lying to him when he told him that. Unless Schlatt was..Wilbur curses under his breath, crushing the grass that rests underneath of him. He digs his boots into the ground, balling up his hands into fists. Of course Schlatt was lying to him, that's what he <em>does</em>, it's his <em>thing</em>. Schlatt lying should <em>not </em>be so surprising to him, and yet, somehow, it is. Wilbur starts to move, clearing his mine again as he walks along the beaten up pathways that he remembers walking into the ground when he was still alive. Wilbur remembers most things from when he was alive, though most of his last memories aren't nearly as nice as the ones from years ago. He looks back over his shoulder once again at the line between his world and the place where he mostly stays, scowling at it. He's positive that it's alive, somehow. Wilbur turns back, continuing to walk, forcing himself to keep moving this time rather than looking back again. He gasps, his hand flying up to his chest. </p><p>Something is unbelievably fucked right now, and it's only getting worse. He doesn't understand why he knows that, he doesn't understand why the world is trying to tell him that. It isn't like he can do anything about it - he's fucking <em>dead</em>, there's nothing that he can do. He isn't of importance, not anymore. The only important person on this world is Tommy, he's the one that the world should be focusing on, not Wilbur.</p><p>Wilbur feels his head spin, he feels the earth scream. The earth, the entire world, is crying out for help, begging for someone to stop <em>something</em>, and Wilbur doesn't understand what it's crying for. He doesn't know why the world is crying out for him to save someone. His world is begging him to stop something from happening, and Wilbur doesn't know what the world is asking of him. Wilbur cries out, falling to his knees as the world shifts around him, slamming down to the ground, cutting open his hands on the rocks that he swears weren't there only a few seconds before. <em>Something is wrong, something is so fucking wrong</em>. Wilbur pushes himself back up, forcing himself to his feet. He starts to move again, pausing when the world goes silent. He breathes out, feeling air flood his lungs, tasting poisonous and wrong. Everything about this moment is wrong, and the world was crying for him to fix it before it got like this. </p><p>Someone has died.</p><p>Someone important has died.</p><p>That's the only thing that makes sense, Wilbur was told by Schlatt that he felt the same thing when Wilbur died. He felt the world scream and beg for help, and Schlatt couldn't do anything about it. When Schlatt breathed in, he tasted poison on his tongue, and that's exactly what's happened, is happening, to Wilbur. He takes a few steps back, nearly stumbling, nearly falling again. Wilbur feels something sort of like fear settle in the pit of his stomach, rising up to his chest, threatening to suffocate him. Wilbur thinks that he should have stayed in his in between, that he shouldn't have come back here again. Wilbur hates this world, he hates his world. Everything about this place is so wrong and twisted, and it's a constant reminder of how badly he fucked up. This world has all of his mistakes, and it reminds him of that constantly, putting them up on display, showcasing them for everyone else to see. Wilbur hates this world, but he loves it even more, and that's solely because every single person who he has ever loved is on this world, all of them are here, they're all-</p><p>"Will?" </p><p>-alive.</p><p>Wilbur stiffens, staring ahead of him. He recognises that voice. That voice sends him spiralling, it makes his chest tighten, it makes his throat seize up. His heart stops, even though it hasn't beaten in a long time. That voice isn't meant to be here. Why can he..</p><p>No. </p><p>Absolutely fucking not. </p><p>There's no way.</p><p>Not this soon.</p><p>He wasn't meant to die this soon. </p><p>There's no way. </p><p>There's..</p><p>Surely not. </p><p>
  <em>Surely.</em>
</p><p>Wilbur turns, slowly and precisely, terror worming its way up into his chest, and this time he's positive that he's going to suffocate on his fear. He turns, and when he's finally turned around, he sees him. He sees <em>him</em>.</p><p>Tommy. </p><p>His little brother. His right hand man. A child soldier who should have never had his life ripped away from him. </p><p>He's covered in bruises, sporting two black eyes and a bloody nose. He looks exhausted, he looks tired. He looks like shit. </p><p>He looks..</p><p>He's dead.</p><p>Tommy is dead.</p><p>"Wilbur," Tommy murmurs, this time a little more confidently. Tommy takes a step towards him, and it takes everything in Wilbur's power to stop himself from taking a step back. "Will, I'm..I don't.." Tommy trails off, looking away, his mouth half-parted. "I'm <em>dead</em>," he laughs, breathy. "I'm fucking dead. I don't understand," Tommy looks back up at him, narrowing his eyes suddenly. "How did this..I thought that I still..I thought.." </p><p>"Tommy," Wilbur starts, feeling sick to his stomach. "What the hell happened? How did this happen to you? This wasn't supposed to happen, this wasn't..no," Wilbur shakes his head, refusing to believe that this is real, that any of this is actually real. This can't be happening, not right now, not this soon. Tommy isn't supposed to die, Tommy's not supposed to die. Tommy was never supposed to die. "Who did this?" Wilbur asks, his voice a low whisper. One that, no matter how hard he tries, he can't raise. "Tommy? Tommy, how did this..who did this to you? You're not supposed..you aren't.." </p><p>Tommy looks away, a bitter yet grim smile settling onto his face. "Dream," Tommy tells him, sounding entirely unbothered. "Who else would it have been, Will? It was always him. It was always <em>fucking him</em>," Tommy sneers, gritting his teeth. "I don't..I thought.." Tommy stumbles forwards, falling to the ground, a cry tearing from his lips. "Will? I don't..I don't understand. Will?" </p><p>Wilbur moves as fast as he can, kneeling down in front of his little brother. He wraps his arms around the broken boy before him, resting his head on Tommy's shoulder. Tommy sobs against his chest, and Wilbur squeezes his eyes shut. Tommy is dead, he's with Wilbur right now. Wilbur has his arms wrapped around him, Wilbur is holding Tommy in his arms. Tommy is dead, that's the only way this could be happening. Tommy <em>said</em> that, he <em>said</em> that he was dead, but it's..it doesn't make sense. Tommy wasn't supposed to die, Tommy was never supposed to die. That wasn't something that was supposed to happen. Tommy, he was supposed to survive no matter what happened, that was what he was set up for. Wilbur holds his little brother lose to his chest, feeling his own tears starting to trail down the sides of his face. </p><p>This was never supposed to happen. </p><p>Tommy was never supposed to die. </p><p>This world is fucked, Wilbur decides as he listens to his little brother choke on his own cries. This world is <em>fucked</em>. This world is so unbelievably fucked. It took a child's last life, it took everything that he had and then it fucking killed him, to somehow, <em>somehow</em>, make it worse. Wilbur chokes back his own sobs, feeling nothing and everything at the same time. This was never supposed to happen, not to Tommy, not to Tommy of all people. Tommy was supposed to survive, he was supposed to live, he was supposed to be free. <em>This world is fucked</em>. </p><p>"Welcome home," Wilbur whispers, feeling lost and hopeless and desolate and broken. "Welcome home." </p><p>So Wilbur holds his little brother, and together they suffocate in their city of asthma, their lungs filled with broken promises that double as their oxygen. </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>